


Hielt ich den Atem an

by symmetreye



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Role Reversal, Sehnsucht Era, a big mess really, in a playful way?, light sadomasochism, richard's pov, with lots of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetreye/pseuds/symmetreye
Summary: A telephone conversation leads to relationship development, in an unconventional way.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	Hielt ich den Atem an

_Are you trying to tell me that you like it when I hurt you?_

Richard ends up asking Till. He is not angry. Tired maybe, and a bit anxious, and he doesn’t feel like giving much thought to most of what’s being said. 

Okay, fine. He can do what Till likes. Richard promises, just so they can stop talking about it. Till doesn’t stop though, he tries to rationalise, tries to make him see why it would make sense. He sounds like he’s explaining a point of vital significance, but Richard doesn’t believe him, can’t.

Even after hanging up the phone, the taste of the promise lingers foul in his mouth like he has stuffed it with the contents of the ashtray his absentminded gaze is fixed on. As a smoker, he reasons, he should be used to the taste.

Still, Richard doesn’t like it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not with Till. Till with the beautiful voice. Till with the kindest, biggest heart he’s ever had the shock of being let into. It was supposed to go well this time. Richard was careful this time. No, no, not just _well_ , it was supposed to be _perfect_. Because Till is, in Richard’s eyes, even if he is blind to it himself. 

He stops chewing his fingernails. Spits out a jagged half-moon. Great, now his nail looks all crooked...

Richard knows he is lying to himself. He knows it could never be perfect and has known all along. Which is why sometimes, when it spirals out of control, he sees their relationship as a thing of fiction, like it’s all happening in his head. Like a record he can stop listening to and put back on at his own convenience. Maybe he should tell that to Till. That oughta hurt.

He hates himself for the way his mind works sometimes.

*

Next day is rainy. Proper rain. Usually he loves rain, listening to its calming clicks and pattering against the windowpane. He loves it now too, when he is so irritable. He wants to play the guitar, but can’t settle on what to play, and the indecisiveness stretches the thread of his temper even thinner. Maybe it’s because he tried to stay in bed most of the morning, rolling this way and that after a failed fap session. Maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe it's the lack of appetite for lunch; he always falls in a terrible mood when he is hungry. Probably it’s the tricep he pulled over-exerting himself while weightlifting. Most likely it’s because he ran out of cigarettes an hour ago and can’t go out to get more, because he’s meeting Till today and is waiting for him to show up. 

That must be the sound of his car pulling up. And sure enough that’s him, climbing out of the vehicle, trench coat wrapped tightly around his hunched frame. Till has probably never in his life carried an umbrella with him, he suspects.

Richard holds onto the doorknob with a clenched fist and watches Till standing outside in the hallway, drenched in rain. Wet hair covers his brow and his eyes, so that Richard can’t see the-

Richard shuts the door.

The rest of the day goes by quickly. It’s fun. He makes a few calls, goes shopping, cooks for himself, watches _Once Upon a Time in the West_ with surround speakers while eating the meal and sipping vintage wine. Later tunes his acoustic and writes half a song. He should probably read another chapter of the book he’s been reading, but… _yawn_ … he is too sleepy and decides to go to bed instead.

*  
Next time they meet, the door stays open. Well, they’re meeting at Till’s place, and he is much kinder than Richard, even if he doesn’t believe it himself. They don’t fuck.

*  
Next time they fuck, Richard is on top, riding Till. His heart beats faster than bullets flying from a Tommy gun’s round magazine, sweat dripping from his brow and the tip of his nose and the curve of his lower lip onto his lover’s chest and face. Till chases the droplets with his tongue and a smirk. 

Richard feels like slapping that smirk away from his face and so he does. 

The grip of hands on his ass secures tighter in response, fingernails digging into firm flesh. Richard moans, tenses, grins to hear Till growl low and pant, bucking up into him harder, harder… He likes it so much, he likes this, oh… Until he remembers he is supposed to hurt Till, so he pretends that he doesn’t like it. Difficult, but not impossible. Problem is Richard can be so good at pretending that he often ends up believing his own pretense. He isn’t feeling it anymore. 

The change is so sudden it takes Till by surprise. Richard can see that he is confused, lost. Till who is so good at reading him. He goes soft inside him.

In that moment, Richard wants to feel triumphant, stupidly, and he thinks that if he so wished, he could even convince himself that he has never liked it. That he was pretending all along, because all he cared for was winning. He only has to make himself forget how it felt. 

Forgetting comes easy to him, he pretends.

*

Sometimes Richard wonders if Till is afraid of him. He never wants _Till_ to be afraid of him, which is why it’s so strange. It hurts. After all, Richard is always careful. He listens and remembers, and keeps reminding himself that he needs to be gentle and patient, because it’s Till he wants, not his memory. 

He has played Till a song, or told him a joke or some other mundane story about how the last girl he fucked had apparently forgotten to pluck the corner of one eyebrow… And then he sees it, the fear, burrowing like an insect in the tiny spaces like the diameter of pupils, angle of eyebrows and corners of lips. It even comes off in the scent of Till’s body. And when Richard senses the fear, it annoys him, which he feels guilty for, and so tries even harder to be loving.

Tenderness comes easy to him, he desperately hopes.

*

Richard is feeling playful + Till is not = A problem.

When he is in a playful mood, he is impatient. Imperious, some might say. Most of all he dislikes being ignored. It’s childish, selfish, he doesn’t care… 

In his silence, Till is stubborn.

But so is Richard, who works hard to get what he wants, doesn’t give up easily. It’s simple, really: Richard always gets what he wants. Richard wants Till. Therefore, Richard gets Till. And Socrates is a cat… If he were any less proud, he would have called Till. But Richard is proud, and he never calls twice. 

_Sigh._

Maybe he should get a cat. Or a life, for that matter. And he does just that, for a fortnight, until on the afternoon of the fourteenth or fifteenth day he remembers to check his answering machine. By then the playful mood is gone. Pleasure turns into obligation. 

Sometimes he thinks he only waxes playful when Till is busy. As if to prove something, overcome a challenge. Now that Richard quickly listens to Till's messages, he feels nothing. Maybe a little bored. It’s difficult for him to get back in once he’s forced himself to disengage. Not just from Till, but from the others too. These breaks coincide with periods of creativity, which equals life in a way. 

Till is boring. Till is a challenge. Life is boring without challenges. How the fuck is he supposed to solve that!?

*

Next time they meet, Till isn’t boring. He isn’t a challenge either, and Richard regrets thinking that of him. But he has no time for crippling guilt, not when he is being seduced by the wonderful picture before him.

Till is beautiful, lying naked under him, all supple and languid and giving and lots of other things Richard is too lust-dumb to find words for now, busy as he is admiring them in the flesh. 

Richard kisses Till on the left cheekbone, then on the right. Mmmm… He kisses the bridge of his nose, then a fluttering eyelid, not his mouth but all around it, dodging the lips when they twist and curl in search of his. He chuckles lightly to sense Till’s frustration in the way the puff of his breath tickles Richard’s eyelashes. By way of apology, he lets Till touch his hair, fingertips tentatively disturbing the layout of neatly trimmed locks, all the more as Richard shifts downwards to plant kiss-seedlings and teasing licks along his lover’s neck and now chest, chirping love-mewls like a mother cat petting her young. Hmmm… Now the right nipple, now the left, which he chews on in good measure - a tiny admonishment, just because - sighing to feel a twitch in the tip of his own achingly erect cock caused by the lovely sound of a half-suppressed gasp. 

Softly, he rolls Till onto his stomach, props up his hips, head pressed down. Doesn’t lift his palm from the back of Till’s neck until he’s sure he’ll stay put. When the fingers finally withdraw, they brush off Till’s hair from his face so that Richard can have a nice view of his flushed profile and painfully focused expression when he fucks him.

Richard was patient opening up his lover - between the gasp and the roll - so it doesn’t take long for him to fully penetrate him. He stays there for a while, enjoying the clinched heat pulsing around his cock. Oh, this feels good... Till feels so good, he thinks and gently strokes his lover’s strong thighs, hips and flanks with reverently trembling hands in a shy attempt at physical articulation. Touches grow bolder, and more demanding - some might say cruel - ending in a playful pinch of a nipple before he starts to move.

It doesn’t take long before Richard is lost in his pleasure, leans forward, palms seeking and taking hold of his lover’s pecs, only to let go immediately as he recalls how Till doesn’t like that. Learning these things is difficult. Till doesn’t tell him what he doesn’t like, not during sex, or any other time, and Richard only finds out later when the harm is done and it makes him feel like a prick. So he has to make sure to remember. 

Till’s disarming little whines and moans will be the end of him, he reckons with a small smile as his right hand lets go of his lover’s waist to rake through his own hair, wiping off the sweat while Richard takes a short break. The same hand, on its return journey, descends with a decisive… _Slap!_ Hmm, he loves the way it makes his palm tingle, and... _Slap!_ The way it makes Till clench around him, oh, so… _Slap!_ He does it again and again, to the rhythm of deliberately timed thrusts, until the right cheek is all red and nicely throbbing. Naturally, Richard has to make the left cheek match in colour. 

Once satisfied, he grasps the punished, now visually ~~doubly~~ threefold pleasing ass in both hands and sheaths himself fully, grinding slowly, and occasionally plays with Till’s cock with skilled guitarist fingers - left hand, Till’s preference - to make him sing the sort of song he sings only for him, letting go before the final note. 

Skin sticks to skin each time Richard pounds into Till. Briefly he thinks of changing positions, but nothing beats this handsome view, does it? And he isn’t given much of a chance anyway, since just then he notices how Till has sneakily grabbed hold of a discarded black and white striped T-shirt, pulled it to himself and is biting and sniffing the fabric, clutching tightly, and seeing that does it for Richard. He is undone, with a quiet gasp. Richard is never loud when he comes, though he does sob some shameful nasal cries when he bites onto Till’s scarred shoulder, riding out the climax. 

Till hasn’t come yet.

_How did we become so out of sync?_

Till smiles, like Richard has whispered something funny. So Richard senses a familiar fear spiking in his stomach, and it’s when Till sees it that he finally takes control, fully. It’s been a while. 

Surrender does not come easily to Richard. It is easier though with Till. Sometimes he even suspects he prefers it like this, though he won’t tell him that. Ever. Partly from pride, and partly cause he thinks Till likes to surrender too now and then, be taken care of, made love to.

Not now though. Richard’s belly flips to see the look in his lover’s eyes. Till won’t go easy on him, it promises…

By the time Richard is hard again, Till has taken his revenge on the spanking whim, among other things. Richard’s throat is a bit sore, jaw aching, mouth tastes of cum, face messy with it, and he doesn’t even want to think about the sorry state of his hair. Not that he has the time to, and that’s one of the good things about this. 

He does feel a bit irked though, cause now they have to wait for Till to recover.

_Sigh..._

Richard doesn’t care for being fingered when he is lying on his back; it’s embarrassing. And of course Till knows this, which is why he sports that devilishly charming grin again, and this time Richard is too wound up and breathless to swat it off his face successfully and instead ends up with the wrist of the aggressive hand seized and pinned to his side. So Richard endures and thinks of looking away, in rebellion, but decides to glare back instead, in rebellion. 

_Fuck you and your limp dick..._

He is not saying that aloud, but Till sees it anyway, in the look in his eyes. Richard is counting on it.

The sex is rough, and they’ve both come once already so it lasts longer. Several minutes in and the burning and the delicious pain of stretching is nigh negligible, he’s all numb with pleasure now, eyes half-lidded, mouth half-open, mind half-alert, precum smearing on his belly more and more with every thrust. Richard is divided between closing his eyes to focus entirely on the euphoric sensations, or keeping them open so that he can watch his lover in his most powerful and open guise. He is spared making a choice when Till presses down on top of him, full weight, and kisses him savagely. 

Oh, he likes this… 

Richard wraps his arms around Till, claws at his shoulder blades, clasps the nape of his neck, heart thumping so loud he almost can’t hear the cocoon of growls and groans wrapping around them. It’s almost too much, the way the sensitive underside of his cock is being rubbed between their bodies, against the coarse hair covering Till’s lower abdomen. He won’t last long like this, and Till, naturally, finds this out. How, Richard has no fucking clue, but it’s damned frustrating when the maddening stimulation stops just as he is teetering over the edge…

It’s through a humid haze of arousal that Richard watches the sweaty and grinning figure of his lover bent over him, supported on muscular arms to his left and right, cock nodding in excitement.

He could bite Till. And he does, on the closest limb, which happens to be his left forearm. And Richard is bitten back, with a bit less force on the earlobe where he wears the loop, because even in these moments Till is still the kinder one. 

*

They fuck most of the day and next day too, and Richard lets Till do whatever he pleases. When he has had enough and there is no space left on Till’s body for him to bite, he says something like _I think I might be falling in love with you_ and waits impatiently for Till to retreat. It’s not only Till who needs to be hurt to feel safe.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the lovely [gif](https://symmetr-eye.tumblr.com/post/641679466957012992) of a somewhat pouting Richard. It's all fiction and not meant to represent anyone! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading, and please let me know what you think!


End file.
